In a dark, weeny stone house I live,
faraway from my reality.
The chimney fires burn all day, all night,
I see myself in the glaring flames.
Floral vines dance around the pillars,
the bricks of which were cemented by my gloomy days.
The sun pours its light down the window,
that my curtain of resentment is reluctant to let it in.
The pocket-watch in my hand seems to change my time.
I now pin a white lily in my long braid,
perhaps I now want to paint.
But I don’t have my brushes anymore,
so I cut down my tendrils of hair,
and make trivial brushes in the name of my faith.
I now want my colors back,
that were once all stolen like my happy days.
I now decide to paint,
the bright rainbow gives me my palette.
Stroke after stroke, splash after splash,
the white canvas of my mind relieves my pain.
I break the long-buried knots in my bosom, they all bleed colors now.
For, I was once the creator of my world,
let alone my destiny.
The chamber gets darker, the fires get warmer,
the vines stay still, now the moon is set ablaze.
I light a candle that no wind can blow away.
I paint all night, all day.
I see myself completing a woman,
a pretty, dusky woman,
who seems to bear deep scars from her past.
But she still appears bold to me,
for I can see her standing in a strong posture.
She smiles enigmatically at me,
perhaps she wants me to smile back at her.
Her penetrating black eyes are piercing my world apart.
She has a white lily tucked in her long braid.